


Before they take it from our hands

by ninemoons42



Series: Love, Love [2]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Paralysis, Teamwork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-24
Updated: 2011-06-24
Packaged: 2017-10-20 16:56:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42





	Before they take it from our hands

  
title: Before they take it from our hands  
author: [](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ninemoons42**](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/)  
word count: 3,201  
fandom: X-Men: First Class [movieverse]  
pairing: implied Charles Xavier/Erik Lehnsherr  
rating: PG-13  
notes: Mild spoilers for the movie; an AU for the ending in which neither Erik nor Moira are responsible for Charles's condition. A sequel to [Back down to the earth](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/179460.html).  
betas: [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/kiyala/profile)[**kiyala**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/kiyala/) and [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/chn_breathmint/profile)[**chn_breathmint**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/chn_breathmint/).  
Title and cut text from Take That, "Love Love".

  
Charles wakes up with a start. Sheets, a heavy knitted throw, sunlight streaming through the windows of his room. It's cold, and it is a thin kind of cloudy day, and the world looks grey and feels like it's pressing in around him.

Home. When did he get home? How did he end up in his bed? He doesn't remember tottering through the corridors. Is it a hangover, that persistent numbness, the leaden weight of his legs and feet and, and.

His mind chooses that moment to catch up with him. A different kind of hammer blow this time. A uselessly brutal memory. The wheelchair next to his bed.

 _I, I, Shaw, Cuba, no, help, oh fuck,_ and that's it, he falls apart, remembering just in time to shield himself from the others in the house because they need to rest too. He clenches his hands into fists, the nails digging into his palms a welcome shock of sensation, nothing like the blankness that is all that is left of his legs. He pounds on his knees, he rips the blankets and his pyjama bottoms down and hits himself, over and over, till he can see the red blood pounding at the surface.

But he still doesn't feel anything.

And, defeated, he covers his face with his aching hands. Deep breath, one, two, and he has to face the day. He has to make his own way.

He can barely see the wheelchair when he looks up, but he can touch it – it's been parked thoughtfully close to the bed – and with a little wriggling he manages to transfer himself into it at last, pulls the throw over his legs as an afterthought.

The effort leaves him exhausted.

He doesn't remember closing his eyes.

///

When Erik wakes, there is a flash of raw emotion leaving afterimages across the ceiling, a quickly-suppressed cry for help. A familiar voice. And then, silence.

A light snow is falling outside, and he's grateful for his turtleneck, huddles into a warmer version of his jacket before he's leaving his bed behind, unmade, and he's walking silently through the corridors.

The others have slept with the doors to their rooms cracked open, and he peers into all of them, begins to worry when bed after bed is empty – but this is a mystery that is easily solved. Moira's room, near the stairs. This door is wide open. Sean is spread-eagle on the floor and snoring lightly. Raven is curled up in the window seat, one foot dangling to the floor, and Hank and Alex are sleeping on each other's shoulders nearby. Moira is half-in and half-out of her covers, fully dressed.

He closes the door with a heavy heart, hurries downstairs to where Charles's bedroom has been hastily relocated.

The door creaks open when he knocks on it and he doesn't know why he's hesitating now.

The wheelchair and the man in it. Charles's dark hair falling over his eyes. The unsteady rise and fall of his shoulders. His knees are covered by a knitted blanket, but his feet stick out, no socks, and Erik thinks he must feel cold.

 _Or does he_ , he hastily corrects himself. He tamps down on his rage; it won't do to have Charles woken up now. Buries it deep inside his head, something to use in the future. Still, he knows what cold can do to the feet, and he tries to tuck the blanket in more securely, looks around for something Charles can wear.

 _I think the closet is as it was upstairs. Left-hand door, second basket under the mirror. My winter socks._

He looks up.

Charles is awake. His smile is partly a wince, partly a grimace, and partly the same kind expression he's always worn.

“Charles,” Erik says, and he finds the socks and hands him a pair.

He tries to remember what it was like in the camps, the other mutants Shaw had found and tried to experiment on, himself the last survivor and watching them all succumb to their wounds. A guilty flash of wanting to go with them, wanting to escape. He tries to summon up some compassion, and all he comes up with is his own painful self-honesty.

Charles looks up from putting his socks on. “Thank you.”

“Are you reading my mind.”

“No, Erik, and you know I won't lie to you, I won't influence you.” The wheelchair inching close. “Everything is plain to see in your face. I am truly sorry, if this pains you so much.”

“The situation is painful, I admit.” He sighs and sits down on the bed. Too much honesty, not enough sleep; he feels exhausted already, but he looks Charles in the eyes all the same. “And that because none of us can help you.”

“Yes, that,” Charles says, “nothing to do but manage, you know. I am already grateful to Raven for taking so much time to look after the house on my behalf. This room feels exactly like my attic did. Warmer, though; I've escaped the drafts at last.”

Erik steps aside to give him a clear path to the door. He doesn't know what to do. “Do you...will you need me to push...?”

“Walk with me,” Charles says, instead, and he does. “Breakfast first, I think, and then we must talk about training regimens.”

“For you.”

“Yes, for me.” A sigh. “Upper body strength, I suppose. Self-defense. I want to learn how to defend myself, and I want to learn how to help you fight.”

That stops Erik in his tracks and he looks down at Charles. “What are you thinking.”

And he recognizes that steely flash in the blue eyes. A flash that he sees in his own mirror, every day. Determination, rage, revenge, justice. “Shaw,” is all Charles says, and he rolls past.

Erik winces, knows the strangeness of their bond now, and follows uncertainly in his wake.

///

He lifts the weights from his desk; he forces himself to think of _strength_ , and he curls his hand back toward his shoulder to begin again. One, two, three, and then his wrist twinges in protest and he groans, carefully puts the weight down.

“Charles,” and it's a familiar and heartwarming sight now, to see Raven inhabiting her true form so easily. The lace of her white dress a striking contrast against her blue skin. “Don't push yourself so hard.”

“Hello, gorgeous,” and Charles smiles as he says it, smiles until she radiates pure _pleasure_ back at him. He knows now that he came so perilously close to losing her forever, came so close to _rejecting_ her, and he's going to spend a long time making up for his naivete, his stupidity.

“Flatterer,” Raven laughs, and she sits on her heels on the carpet, fussing over her skirts till she's satisfied, the lace spread out over the sober greens. “Do you want me to get you some ice?”

“Not when you're happy there. Thank you, though. It's just taking me some time to get used to these weights; I swear Erik's been tampering with these blasted things.”

 _He's not,_ and he looks at her as she covers her smile with her hand, raises a fond eyebrow.

 _Then who is?_

“It's Hank,” and Erik comes in, freshly showered, and still drying his hair. “I believe Alex is putting him up to it.” White undershirt, grey drawstring trousers, a muddy pair of sneakers. A crimson towel, a shocking splash of colour. His hair is sticking up in random tufts near his ears.

When Raven laughs and wolf-whistles at him, Charles throws back his head and laughs.

When Raven playfully pinches his arm, when Erik snorts in amusement and keeps drying himself, he lets himself forget about the pain, about the wheelchair, about the children and Shaw and the world, and he simply lets himself _exist_.

///

He's starting to get used to Charles all over again.

Erik is in the kitchen, refilling his water bottle, when Hank jogs past with Raven, the two of them throwing salutes over their shoulders, and then rounding the corner and out of sight.

Charles appears a few minutes later, blowing hard. His gloved hands working on the wheels of his chair, as fast as he can, as he chases after the others.

He throws open the window and calls his name, once. “Charles.”

“Whoa!” Squeak of gears, and then Charles is slowly backing up. His shoulders heaving. His grey sweatshirt and a dark stain spreading down from his soaked collar. “Hello, Erik. Can I help you with something?”

“Funny,” Erik says, after a moment. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

He watches as Charles tries to laugh, but he's too winded, and he settles for an amused wheeze.

“Stay there,” Erik says, and he fills a second water bottle, jogs out to meet him, offers him a drink.

“Now I have to ask if you're not reading my mind.” Charles all but snatches the water bottle away; he feels a frisson as their hands touch, and he watches as Charles drinks the water as fast as he can.

When he finishes Charles squints at the empty container.

“Do you want any more?” Erik asks.

Charles laughs and looks away and scratches the back of his head.

Erik shakes his head and gives him his own bottle. “Tomorrow, you start carrying your own, and you don't go out and start training until you've drunk three glasses, and as soon as you're done training you drink four glasses. Understand?”

Charles nods, and drains the second bottle.

///

He can't help but groan when he comes back into the house.

Every muscle he can feel is hurting; he feels like he's been wrenched and battered and tumbled around every which way.

There are huge bruises on his knees – how surreal it is to see them and not feel them – the result of having been bowled over, arse over teakettle, by a shockwave. Sean flying overhead, and Alex hurling indignant abuse after him, and a distant _Sorry, Professor!_ The difficulty of having to climb up into his chair. Alex being helpful, and the flash in his memory of a boy tapping through life with a white cane.

Someone has prepared the bath for him and he sighs, almost in shock and almost in relief, when he sees the steam rising, fogging up the mirror.

Now for the problem of actually getting into the water.

Clothes off and in a sweaty pile, he lifts himself from the wheelchair and into a higher chair placed right next to the tub. Arm muscles groaning, and a fresh coat of sweat on his forehead. He swings his legs over the edge with his hands, one at a time, and finally he half-slides, half-falls into the hot water. _Hallelujah,_ he thinks, and he pulls in a deep breath, slides under the surface.

Even in here, he can't escape the others' thoughts, welcome distraction though they might be. Like a balm for his injuries. Hank is beating Alex at darts, to Sean's astonishment, Moira's amusement, and Raven's happy cheering.

A quick flash of pleasure, somewhere else in the house.

It's Erik, and he's in the library, and – oh, he's found the Sun Tzu and the Musashi. Battle strategy and tactics.

Charles makes a note to himself to find his own battered copies of the books, and he rises from the water, laughing and gasping for breath. A thrum of anticipation in his bones.

///

He's at the large table in the library. A battered notebook, the fountain pen with the many-times-chewed tip, the many-times-repaired nib.

Strategy is a matter of knowing what resources you have. How to correctly deploy them. How to gather your weapons, how to marshal them and keep them at the perfect fighting edge.

And, most importantly: Know thy enemy.

He could actually do without all the knowledge he's gathered about Shaw and his Hellfire Club – it might help him sleep better at night – but right now he has to force himself to be grateful that he knows. The prospect of sending the others into battle unprepared – into sending Charles in blind – does not even bear thinking about.

He cares about them now, about this mismatched house of mutants and the kindly/eccentric/sharp/strange man at the head of the table when they sit down to meals. And more than anything else, he wants to make sure that if they go out to battle, they come back. Battered or bruised or bloodied, so long as they come back, with their spirit shining out of their eyes.

Metal moving in his vicinity, and he scribbles out another few lines before he says, “And how long have you been there?”

“Long enough to want to say thank you,” and he watches, his eyes slightly narrowed, as Charles comes in.

The glass in Charles's hand startles him a little. “You're not supposed to be drinking yet.”

“Please, Erik, tell me something I don't already know.”

He looks up sharply at the bitterness in Charles's voice.

Now that he can see the glass more clearly, it's easier to tell that it hasn't actually been drunk from. Relief, and he holds out his hand. “Charles.”

The glass is in his hand and he sniffs at it appreciatively. Peat and oak and several years of aging; it's come out of the good dark bottles at the very back of the liquor cabinet.

Charles mutters and smiles and shakes his head, and he pokes through Erik's papers on the table. Suddenly: “Is there some way to find something _new_ out of these old tactics and strategies? I grant you Zhuge Liang has always known what he is talking about, but he only worked with the weapons of his day. We're dealing with new weapons. We ourselves are new organisms. Have you put some thought into matching us up with our opponents?”

“Naturally,” Erik says, and he beckons Charles over, waits for the wheelchair to stop next to him. “Your sister has a natural affinity for hand-to-hand combat, and if they work together, she and Hank might be able to contain the teleporter, if she can shapeshift rapidly enough. Sean and Angel, Alex and that boy with the wind abilities. You and the diamond woman.”

Charles shakes his head sharply, once, but says nothing.

Erik waits him out, drinks his way through the glass in measured sips.

“Erik, she's going to be working together with Shaw, you know that. She's going to cloud our minds, be a distraction, locate the weak points and be an external shield for Shaw, so he can go in and attack us.”

“So?”

“You and I can do the same.”

He raises his eyebrows. “And this entails _what_ exactly, Charles.”

Charles meets his gaze steadily, raises his hand to his temple and wiggles his fingers.

Erik nods and Charles is saying, inside his mind, _Exactly as it was on the day I met you. Something that we did again, just before you moved the satellite dish._

 _You want to be inside my mind while I fight._

 _Only to help you be more effective, Erik._

Erik sighs and downs the rest of his drink. “Are you attempting to overcompensate for your injury? To be overly useful and thus strain yourself?”

He watches a parade of expressions cross Charles's face and he instantly adds: “Well, that's something else you need to perfect: your poker face.”

“I happen to have a fairly excellent poker face, Erik....”

“You make people _think_ you have an excellent poker face, Charles. You are an abominable cheat and an idiot of a dealer to boot. I'm pretty sure Hank and Alex are still thinking about the last hand of poker while they were watching you in hospital,” and Erik allows himself a grin. Really, how had Charles thought he could win on a pair of jacks when Hank was holding a full house?

“Thank you for derailing the conversation, Erik,” a suddenly red-faced Charles growls. But there is a delighted sort of laugh lingering around the edges of Erik's mind, where Charles is still holding on to a light contact. “I was only trying to help you, but now I see I am to be the butt of your jokes yet again.”

Erik laughs and shakes his head, and he's still grinning when he looks back down at his notes.

///

The door to the underground bunker now carries a hand-lettered sign bearing the legend “DANGER ROOM”.

Charles looks up at Moira, who is helping him navigate the steep ramps down, and raises an eyebrow.

“Don't ask me,” she laughs, and she pats the sign as they pass it. “Besides, how many times have you almost set this place on fire already?”

“At least seven,” Hank mutters as he squeezes past them, as he takes up a position near the fire extinguisher.

“It wasn't that many!” Charles protests as he rolls toward the farther end of the gallery.

Sean and Alex are waving at him when he looks over his shoulder, and sit down snickering near Hank.

“Popcorn!” Raven hurries in a few moments later, and her fingers are already greasy as she hands paper buckets to the boys.

“This is a practice session,” Charles grouses, good-naturedly. “Not a silly little television show put on for your benefit.”

“The whole _world_ is a television show put on for us,” Raven snaps playfully, and she sticks out her tongue. Her face flickers and Charles is suddenly looking at his own skeptical expression, complete to the raised eyebrow.

“Nicely done, Raven,” Erik says as he comes in, and Charles has to smile at the pure happiness that takes over his sister's face. “Though you'll want more insouciance in it next time, a little more arrogance.”

Raven nods enthusiastically, and the boys laugh some more; even Hank is covering his grin.

“I hate you, Erik,” Charles finally says.

“I know,” and does he sound almost _cheerful_? Damn the man. It is all Charles can do to not throw back the pair of sticks that Erik tosses at him.

“And what are these?” Charles asks.

“These are called _baston_ ,” Erik says, and he quickly spins his own set around, once. “Weapons used in an Asian martial art called _eskrima_. As you can see,” and he's teaching, now, and even the peanut gallery has quieted down in sudden fascination, “these weapons are easy enough to carry, replace, and especially improvise.”

Charles looks down at his hands in sudden fascination, at the sticks, and he thinks about learning to maneuver the wheelchair, to learn how to fight properly. A sword and a plowshare at the same time. A weapon and a mentor.

[To be concluded]  



End file.
